Mustaches Come Under the Ban of Calgary's Maidens

Apropos of Movember (the annual month-long charity event when men grow mustaches to raise money for men's cancer), here is an item from 100 years ago today.

Calgary News-Telegram, November 19, 1912

Calgary News-Telegram, November 19, 1912

Mustaches Come Under the Ban of Calgary's Maidens 

Agitation Looking to Their Banishment the World Over, Is Finding General Support

There is going to be some trouble before the style of wearing mustaches will come into favor again. Slowly but surely the man with a fine showing of hair on his upper lip has here and there put behind him any criticism or sarcasm that may be coming from the girls and faced the world with a wealth of whiskers. But the revolt of the girls is at its height...

Some Peaches Here.

Now, following the British fashion, there are some fine mustaches right here in Calgary, some of the finest ever seen. It would give us immense pleasure to describe one or two, but we refrain. But whether they are looked upon as becoming by the sterner sex itself it is certain that the girls are dead against them—unless they are married and then it is no use kicking, anyway. To find out just what is ithe local opinion a canvas of the city hall was made to secure opinions among the many dainty young ladies there, and here is what they came across with:

"No, I don't like them. Of course, they suit some men, and they look a lot nicer than without a mustache, but still I think they are dirty. I wouldn't marry a man with a mustache, not if he looked ever so nice."

This was from a very nice girl, too. She limits her horizon for marriage with that declaration, but it is her firmly expressed opinion, and she is nice enough to stand a good chance with the rest of the boys who dislike hair on the upper lip just as much as she does. With an English accent, another said:

"I can't see what a man wants to wear a mustache for. It is always wanting to be waxed, or washed, and it gets in his tea, and its [sic] dirty all the time. There. A man looks far better, all round, when he hasn't a mustache, and whether he has a nice looking face or not, he certainly has a chance of letting you see all its good qualities—if it has any,"" she concluded with the usual womanly inconsistency.

Then came the girl with a bright eye, clear forehead and a trim ankle. She also said that the mustache was a nuisance and a man had to pull it back to drink, and sometimes it was dirty. (They all, it might be mentioned, look upon a mustache as dirty). Some men's mustaches improved, and she had not so much objection to them then, but personally she preferred the boy with his face adorned only with eyelashes and eyebrows. And then she sighed.

The Candidate's Soliloquy

In November 1912, Calgary was in the midst of a municipal election campaign. The Morning Albertan, the forerunner to the Calgary Sun, published the following poem on its front page a century ago today—November 13, 1912. The poet references the two leading mayoralty contenders, incumbent John W. Mitchell (who went down to defeat) and Harry Sinnott (the winner). He also refers to successful aldermanic candidates Stanley G. Freeze and Thomas Arthur Presswood Frost, defeated aldermanic candidate R.J. Frizzle, and defeated candidate for commissioner George M. Lang.

 

Morning Albertan, November 13, 1912, page 1

The Candidate’s Soliloquy

By Harry F. Burmester

To run or not to run—that is the question;

Whether ‘tis wiser for a man to suffer the heartless wallops of

a flock of voters, or,

Take passage on a sea of troubles and by smart sailing end them

To run for office and perchance to win! Aye, there’s the rub,

For in that running there are things that come

To quiet candidates with thoughts of home,

That make them weep and wail and gnash their pet bicuspids.

O, Tempora! O, Mores! O, a lot of things!

Kidd Fate, if I could only by some occult means

Dope out just what you have in store for me,

Perhaps I’d fling away ambition, cease to yearn

For things in nightly visions that I often see

Obeisance, honor, and the praise that comes

To men of office, I would shun, I reck,

If I but know I’d get it in the neck.

Frizzle, Frost and Freeze! Gad, what a fate

These names suggest. No luck can wait them at election date.

And I see painted on that culture screen of mine

A warning—something like an old Lang sign.

It augurs ill for me.

Mitchell, Sinnot [sic], and some others, too, may feel

The beat of public pulse when people vote.

Something whispers that they’ve got my goat.

Last night the gang assembled on the Heights to talk

Planks and platforms. I was there. I’m glad I didn’t speak,

For somehow, both my knees felt very weak.

This game of politics is a game of chance.

And fortune is so fickle. ‘Ere I start and give

The boys a chance of taking all I own save life,

Hold on a minute ‘till I ask my wife.